


Cracked Actor

by PaintedGlass



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Casting Couch, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Jareth keeps stealing her underwear and I have no idea why, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, References to David Bowie, Shameless Smut, Small sprinkling of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedGlass/pseuds/PaintedGlass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah can't get the career break she needs, but when she auditions for Hollywood's hottest director, he's more than happy to break her in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A bad connection / The audition

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning - there is no real plot here. This is pure filth, just so you're not expecting anything more. Know the filth, perhaps embrace the filth, or else skip past the filth to read something more wholesome. You have been warned!

  
_I've come on a few years from my Hollywood highs,_  
_The best of the last – the cleanest star they ever had._  
_I'm stiff on my legend, the films that I made,_  
_Forget that I'm fifty, 'cause you just got paid._

_Crack, baby, crack, show me you're real._  
_Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel?_  
_Suck, baby, suck, give me your head,_  
_Before you start professing that you're knocking me dead._

_Oh, stay._  
_Please stay._  
_Please stay._

_You caught yourself a trick, down on Sunset and Vine,_  
_But since he pinned you, baby, you're a porcupine._  
_You sold me illusions, for a sack full of cheques,_  
_You made a bad connection, 'cause I just want your sex._

_Crack, baby, crack, show me you're real._  
_Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel?_  
_Suck, baby, suck, give me your head,_  
_Before you start professing that you're knocking me dead._  
_Oh, yeah._

_Ooh, stay, for a day._  
_Oh, yeah._  
_Don't you dare._  
_Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …_  
**_Cracked Actor (David Bowie - Aladdin Sane)_ **

She has followed in her mother's glamorous footsteps, all the way to a Hollywood that glitters with false hope and leaves her empty. For a time, she was their darling new actress, showered with accolades and sickening praise, with said mother doing her best all the while to ignore her existence. They will never have the tearful reunion Sarah dreams of, on-screen or off.

It's not often the young stars avoid that inexorable pull of sex and scandal; of 3am coke binges broken up by the police, and drunken brawls with the paparazzi. Somehow, she does, her work the only driving addiction in her charming, bitter little life. The calls from her agent slow, become progressively more awkward. It will never be Janine's fault that the offers themselves have dwindled over the years, but still Sarah feels that hateful little bundle in her heart grow with every crappy bit part the woman offers her – even more so when there is nothing at all to be offered that week. She could switch agencies, she knows, but it would be pointless.

A part of her still regrets that she did not traverse that bridge open only to those sweet, coming-of-age starlets. Even at the small peak her fame had reached, there had been countless offers as she finally outgrew the cutesy teen flicks – offers that many a budding woman-child in her shoes would have snapped up at once. Serious, 'adult' movies, drama and monologues, each with just enough artistic vision to make the now-legal nudity tasteful, and just enough of it to bring in those punters of less artful minds.

One by one, the studios had bid for her blossoming sex, when she was clear and ripe for exposing, but too full of pride to say 'yes'. Now, at twenty-three, they have long since stopped caring. Though it hurts – actually physically pains her stomach – she knows by now that she hasn't the talent to keep their interest otherwise. She's dared to come of age gracefully; grow dull and boring to them. She has lost her magic, and, worse – she knows why.

The rent is obscene here, and she has no clear way to pay the next month's, when the call comes. It's a finished script. It's an actual title role. It is a godsend.

Jared Roberts. Of course, she has heard the name – there's probably no one in the business who hasn't. It's a relatively new one, by Hollywood standards, emerging only around the same time her own début came. Already, it's clear he's one of the greats – he of curious tastes and infinite takes to achieve perfection. He's known as being somewhat demanding to work for, but anyone in her shoes would kill for the chance. It's only as she arrives in the parking lot for the audition that Sarah realises she hasn't seen a single one of his movies. They've always wandered too far into the fantasy genre for her tastes. She has no idea why that frightens her so much now.

Notorious for his theatricality, the director has demanded his auditions take place in an actual, honest to god theatre – a place, Sarah notes, with a hint of bitterness, that is infamous enough to cost a small fortune to rent out for something so frivolous, and that she could never hope to headline. In the wings of the stage, in her most expensive business heels, and her best skirt and blouse, she feels like she is trespassing here. Her stomach twists and knots, her head feels strangely afloat from her body, and she can't seem to concentrate on the reading she's memorised. It's as if she's managed to wish herself away from reality, without ever meaning to. The right words she has poured over for a week shift and dance inside her head.

The feeling only intensifies as her turn eventually comes, and she walks out onto the stage, into the surreal, and into _his_ scrutiny. The spotlight she steps under blinds her to the other humans she hears milling about the auditorium, but she sees him well enough, and for a time, it's like they are the only two present on the earth itself. He sits in a folding chair, before the many rows of seats, conspicuously placed beneath its own spotlight. She is the last in a long afternoon of hopeful actresses, and she knows that he wishes for her to see him, as well as he now sees her. She wonders if his heart reacts in quite the same way as her own does.

Her first, odd thought – given that she has never cared even to look closely at the pictures pasted onto his interviews – is that his hair has been tamed some. It's an unruly, platinum-blonde pompadour of loose waves, pushed back from his pale forehead with just enough care for it to seem rebellious when it springs forth anew. The style is a little dated, now, but he wears it well. He wears _everything_ well. From the powder-blue button-down shirt that clings so snugly to his chest and slim belly, those cream khakis, exquisitely tapered to fit his long legs, all the way down to his suede leather brogues. Everything about him screams money and sophistication, and, perhaps, a little danger. He sits with one lean leg sprawled across the arm of his director's chair, with twinned confidence and arrogance that, on anyone else, would seem a ridiculous parody of itself. On him, it's natural; unrehearsed, as much a part of him as the point of his chin and those perilously high cheekbones. He is above them.

Try as she might, she _can't … stop … staring._

She could easily be some starstruck teen, rather than the professional she claims to be, blinded by him and his God-like presence, and formidable reputation. It's more than that, though. It's his eyes – one a pale blue jewel, the other a darker, mismatched imitation of its twin. It's the cool, cavalier stare that still, at times, has the ability to wake her up, shivering in the dark. It's the sneering, pouting lips that do not seem capable of a true smile – that she knows all too well have the capacity to be cruel. It's the way he stares back. He looks, and he _sees_ her, as no one else here does. He can't be that man. It's _impossible_ for him to be _that_ man, but she knows from experience that he wears impossible well, too.

She flubs her own introduction, and imagines she sees his smirk grow just a little wider. He doesn't speak – simply nods his head, and waves a delicate, long-fingered hand for her to continue, giving her the stage. For no reason at all, she abandons the scene she had planned – a fledgeling warrior princess mourning the death of her parents. The monologue she chooses instead is one she has not allowed herself to study for too long. In it, the warrior princess is older, wiser to the world, bound by status and obligation as she surrenders herself to the Elven King's relentless pursuit of marriage. The words taste like sin on her lips. Her delivery is, at best, stilted.

In spite of her clumsy diction, he lets her speech run on to its end, watching her with amusement, and burning intent. Every molecule within her is high-strung and overheated, giving her the sense that she is all but vibrating inside her own body, yet somehow, she goes on speaking. She knows she has no hope at the part, but is utterly unsurprised when he speaks up at the end.

“Sarah.” Her name is the first word he has spoken to her, and it explains everything. It's high, chiming crystals, the soft whisper of a bird of prey's wings; rich, warm silks and velvets that pool within her belly. It's enough to set her breath hitching within her throat, her heart beating a lively tattoo beneath her breast.

“An interesting reading,” he continues, and his eyes never stray from hers. “If you have no objections, I think it's best we discuss it further in my office.”

The room does not come to a stop. No glasses shatter. Not a one of their co-stars in this new scene gasp, or even look at her twice. No doubt half of them, if not more, have felt the scratch of the casting couch against their backs at some time or other – given in to the dark temptation of fucking their way forwards. She follows him in silence, down long, brightly-lit corridors, as if in a dream, her heart firmly in her mouth.

There's a disorienting moment where she is certain that the brass nameplate on his door is a lie – that he will open it, and send them both tumbling into some place far darker than Narnia. The door opens, all right, but it reveals nothing more than a pin-neat, spacious enough personal office. She imagines that, given the temporary nature of its use, it is not quite up to his usual tastes, but he has adapted the room to suit his needs. The office's floor-to-ceiling windows have their blinds drawn, the overhead light warm, and strangely intimate for the setting.

Her escort and potential employer seats himself wordlessly behind a wide, polished-oak desk. It's slightly too big for the room, and does not quite match the rest of the furniture. It's clear that it has been brought from outside, but with its sheer bulk and inconvenience, Sarah cannot imagine why. His tastes will always remain a mystery to her. She knows she stares too long at the smooth, dark leather couch in the corner, before he invites her into a chair instead. With great difficulty, she resists the need to squirm under his close inspection.

“You chose the speech about surrender,” he says, without preamble.

She forces herself to nod, elaborating only when the long silence between them draws taut enough to cut glass. “I thought it was appropriate. It shows off a side of the character we only get to see later on.”

His jaw shifts, and she can see his tongue moving behind his lips, tracing every one of his teeth before he speaks again. “And what side is that?”

Her dry mouth begs for water, but she forces it to form words. “She's left behind all the power that's driven her so far. She knows the Elven King will win in the end, and she's finally accepted the inevitable.”

His eyes close briefly, and they're all but glittering when he reopens them. “Umm. It's a difficult script, and I must confess, I've heard it read much better today. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I was … distracted.”

“I see.” He smiles, and it's nothing if not predatory. “I've been thinking I could use a little distraction of my own, lately. Perhaps we should confer sometime, about what it is you find appealing.”

She sees the gleam in his eye – the leering. With any other director, she would have walked long ago. It doesn't matter. She needs this. He needs _her_. Both of them know it. “How about right now?” she asks.

He grins, and those pouting lips part just enough for him to bite at the edge of his thumb. The hard white line of his teeth stands out against the intimate pink interior of his mouth. “Are you quite certain?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies, knowing that, once he has had his way with her, she will never be certain of anything again.

Such power over her is all he has ever wanted. Slowly – making certain she is watching – he rocks back in his chair, and his hands slip down over his belly, to loosely grasp at his belt. He unbuckles it in no hurry, the jingle of metal and gentle rasp of leather against leather the only sounds in the room. When the belt lies open, he makes no move to free himself – simply pushes himself back from his desk, and twists in his chair a quarter-turn to await her.

She feels light-headed, and more than a little excited as she stands, the blood rushing from her face and neck to pool in other places, tightening her nipples and throbbing rhythmically at her core. The weight of his gaze is heavier than she can bear, resting more substantially on her shoulders with every step she takes around the edge of his desk and towards him – dragging her down and down, until she is on her knees before him. Before she can do anything, his hands are at the collar of her blouse, unbuttoning the garment and tugging the cups of her bra down just enough to get at her tits.

There's obvious approval in his gaze, his eyes and his hands hot against her erect nipples, and she's helpless but to shiver. She's conscious of the slight coarseness of his khakis against her fingertips, as she runs her hands along the insides of his spread thighs. Her thumbs graze the v of his crotch as she reaches into his lap to unbutton him. She notices the slight tremble in her fingers as they rake down his zipper.

He's already hard with the promise of what's to come, and growing as she moves to free him. His briefs feel like silk, but the swollen head of his cock is like velvet, hot against her palm. He throbs in her hand as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking him root to tip and getting to grips with just how big he is. She hears him sigh softly, but nothing more. He's slick with pre-come, but there's no arching into her touch, or pleading. He wants her to work for this. Obediently, she bows her head and runs the tip of her tongue lightly across his slit, tasting the salt and musk of him for the first time. She feels a little ashamed at just how hot that taste makes her. She knows, without looking, that he's watching every second of this, absorbing it for his own pleasure. Bending, she takes him inside her mouth.

He rewards her with a low hiss as her lips sink down around him, enveloping every last inch of him. At once, his left hand threads itself into her hair, cupping the back of her head to urge her on, but not enough to hold her down. She almost smiles at the unexpected courtesy. In the dreams she won't admit, he always fucks her mouth with wild abandon. Still, there's time. She sucks his cock with passion, up and down, hard and getting faster, her lips forming a tight seal around his shaft as the flat of her tongue works to caress the head.

His right hand remains at her breast, alternating between squeezing her and running the ball of his thumb across her nipple. The friction makes her want to cry out, but instead, she tilts her head so that she can stare up at him, shameless and aroused. The sight of him, erect and in her mouth and yet still perfectly composed, is the most erotic thing she has ever witnessed. His left eye is the only thing that gives him away – fully dilated and almost black with the lust written there. His gaze shifts between the actions of her mouth, and her eyes, watching with real hunger as she worships him.

She wants to touch herself, but decides against it when she realises what a show she's already putting on for him. His thumb licks a quick but constant tempo at her nipple, sending faint pleasurable echoes down to her sex that she cannot bring herself to answer. It's as if he knows this, and is intent on pushing her with that steady, throbbing beat as she sucks him. She only realises just how wet simply the feel of him inside her mouth has gotten her, when he finally makes her stop – a soft tugging on her hair. He is rough, but not cruel, as he pulls her to her feet; turns her back so that it's against him. He stands with her, urging her body to bend for him, just in case she had any other ideas of where this thing between them could possibly go.

When she is suitably laid out before him, her bare breasts thrust rudely against the smooth wood, she appreciates just how wide his desk is, and now, she understands why. Even with her arms fully outstretched before her, she cannot reach the opposite edge. It gives her no leverage to grip and use to her advantage to guide him – the depth and the pace of their sex will be completely at his mercy. The knowledge should not thrill her the way it so clearly does, ripples of lust echoing from the very pit of her stomach all the way down to her knees.

She hasn't worn pantyhose, and her skirt is no obstacle to him, flipped up over her hips without care, nor comment. What concerns him now lays solely between her thighs. Her panties are soaked, clinging to her swollen lips, but he is quick to lower them to reveal what it is she has to offer him. There's no words, no mention of a condom, and she doesn't want to ask. She wants him bare anyway, and knows, deep down, he will demand no less. More of her juices pool at that hot juncture between her legs, and knowing he can see exactly _how_ hot he makes her finally unleashes the moan she has held back all these years.

She feels him settle into place, the tip of him almost hot enough to burn as he nudges against her bare slit. Her stomach lifts and falls with the anticipation, but then he's driving forward, entering her in one decisive thrust. He penetrates her to her very core, and she can't help but cry out at the sudden sensation of being so very full. She arches her back, prolonging that initial contact, savouring the feel of his hips, cradled snugly against the curve of her ass.

He gives her time to adjust to the feel of him, taking her hips in his hands and grinding her body slowly back against him, teasing back and forth over that delicious spot deep inside her. It's only when she starts to undulate more earnestly against him, desperate for friction, that he finally begins to move inside her, pulling back and then pressing forward again, urging her body to open to him with long, unhurried thrusts.

It feels hard and sweet and almost unbearably deep, filling her belly in ways no one else ever has or will again – and hadn't she known all along _this_ was what she needed? He _is_ nothing she's ever had: firm and demanding, while her past lovers have been soft and cordial. He's something powerful to hold onto as everything else comes apart … only she can't hold him. He makes sure of that, driving her body hard into his desk with every thrust, her hands writhing and restless as he fucks her. Deeper. Harder. _More._  Shaping and building more of that delicious friction inside her.

His hands tighten around her hips, pulling her back more urgently against him now, as their need grows. The slap of flesh against bare flesh, along with her loud groans of satisfaction surround them. Soon, he's pounding into her hard enough to have her choking back her screams. She's slumped over his desk in complete, blissful surrender, her hands splayed flat, their fingertips turned white from how hard she's trying and failing to hold on. The world is falling down around her, and only he will be there to catch the pieces. All thoughts of her career or _anything_ outside of his office have fled from her. All that matters now is the feeling of him moving inside her, and if anyone doubts it, they can hear her heedless cries and taste of her euphoria.

She's never come purely from penetration before – rarely reaches orgasm from anything other than her own hands. When her climax hits now, it's sudden and explosive, a shifting of tectonic proportions that has her wailing in ecstasy as he continues to slam himself home throughout it. It feels like her very insides are melting and throbbing – a burst of pure, white-hot energy that burns her with its glow, even as it leaves her weak. It's not enough. Not for him.

She only registers the subtle change in their fucking when this new angle causes her clit to come into contact with the edge of the desk. It makes her buck sharply back against him, earning her another of those low hisses of pleasure. He keeps her moving that way, grinding her swollen nub back and forth, back and forth, and she can feel more of her honey flowing to wet his desk as her excitement builds again. It's too much. It isn't enough. It's _everything_. That steady rubbing of her clit matches the insistent rhythm of his cock within her, pumping her faster now as he draws close.

Her vision blurs and tunnels as that crest builds again, everything in her body focussed between her her thighs, now, as she comes for him again. It's not the full-body shock of her first climax, but that pulsing in her clitoris is enough to send sparks shooting behind her tightly-clenched eyelids. She can't hold back the cries that pour like hurtful truths from her lips. _“Jar … Jareth … Jareth!”_

It's wrong and right at once, and she barely hears it in her own ears before she feels him coming inside her. His cock throbs and jerks as he spends himself in her already-soaked pussy, giving her those last few quick, erratic pumps so that she takes it all. There's no spark of revelation; no return call of her own name like a benediction, but he _does_ groan, and it's loud, and deep, and raw with passion, and she knows then that she will never stop craving its sound.

The smell of sex and magic hangs heavy in the air, forcing everything else from her senses, and if she wasn't lost at the start of all this, then she definitely is now. She shudders with the aftershocks from her last orgasm, and feels some of his essence, hot and wet, exit her; slick to dampen her thighs. He, on the other hand, is going nowhere.

He's still buried deep inside her, when she feels the hands at her hips tighten, urging her body upright against him. With her back pressed flush to his chest, she feels his mouth against her hair, and only then realises he has not troubled himself to kiss her. He breathes her hair aside, and that mouth caresses her earlobe now as he speaks – a deep rumble that penetrates her deeper still.

“You always have been _such_ a precious thing, haven't you, Sarah?”

 


	2. You sold me illusions

Her body is still spread open upon his cock, but somehow his words take root far deeper inside her, confirming everything she already knows. 'Jared Roberts' is no more than a mask he has worn in this realm the past few years, just to bring him closer to her. He is her hidden dream and her nightmare from all those years ago – the one who tempted her with magic and madness. He's been so long sheathed away in her mind, and now, finally, within her body. That in itself is undeniable proof that the power he has always wielded over her has in no way been diminished by time – for, truly, did either of them ever believe her denial? He has simply been waiting, all this time, until she grew just desperate enough to accept it.

There's a brief moment when she realises just how much she has missed the sound of his voice; a little longer before she remembers she's supposed to hate him - this man who has spent most of her adult life just waiting to wish her away again.

He waits, even now, for her response.

“How long?” she finally asks. “How long have you been following me … been plotting _this_?” Her body is still filled by him – satisfyingly so, she has to admit – and throbbing, and wet from their sex, but she can't help thinking how deep this casual fuck must really run. How much it will cost her.

He laughs, and the feel of it, resounding through her body and pulsing deep inside her, is near enough to send her mad. “And here I thought you'd missed me. It took far less time than I expected to have you this way, so forgive me for assuming – unless, of course, you're in the habit of offering yourself so willingly to just anyone who asks?”

Whatever retort she might have thought of is pushed rudely from her mind as, with no warning, he withdraws. She moans at the way her body still grips at his deflating cock as it pulls from her, her inner muscles squeezing tight, as if trying to hold him in. It feels like her whole body is in mourning for that loss of fullness, and, as he steps away from her, the warmth of him against her back.

She recovers enough to turn around, in time to see the unhurried way he tucks his cock back inside his trousers. Her mind takes brief, gleeful ownership of that sight before she can stop it – hitting home the knowledge that _she_ has caused the great Goblin King to come undone in such a way, leaving him sated and spent, and covered with her honey. More hot fluid spreads along her inner thighs, and she can no longer tell if it is his, or her own.

There's humour in his eyes, but not enough to hide the way he devours the sight of her – open-shirted, skirt still hiked high; soaked with the aftermath of their sex. His throat rises and falls as he swallows, his tongue flirting a path along the inside of his lips before he speaks again. “As lovely as you are to look at right now, perhaps you'd like to straighten up a bit before we have our little talk?” he suggests, as charming and as helpful as ever, he is, the man who once told her to turn back before it was too late. “There's a private bathroom, just there to your left. You should find it adequate.”

She can think of no suitable reply.

Adequate is an understatement. Whether it's just part of the particularly luxurious scenery around these parts, or he's conjured it through some magic just to accommodate her, the bathroom is small, but far more elegant than anything she's used to. There's a clear glass shower cubicle that's big enough for two, and its stream is powerful with the potential to be almost scaldingly hot, showing her where her own apartment's cramped bathroom has been lacking all this time. She's content just to stand under the spray for a long time, letting it massage her scalp and shoulders. She realises that he could quite easily walk in, and watch her this way through the glass, but just as quickly realises she doesn't care. He's seen the way she comes so easily for him; has seen inside her _mind_ , and that's far more intimate a view.

When she gathers the will to cleanse herself, she finds she's adrift in a sea of products: an array of bodywashes, scrubs, shampoos and conditioners, along with various lotions, creams and butters, all of which look and feel like they fall far beyond her own modest budget. She samples them one by one, and though there's a fair selection of distinctly male products amongst them, catering for _his_ vanity, the vast majority give off subtle and sumptuous feminine scents, clearly aimed towards _her._ She won't allow herself to think on that for too long. It tells her far too much of how well he's planned this.

He needn't have bothered – anything more luxurious than simple drug-store shower gels and cosmetics is wasted on her. She doesn't know how to react to more expensive products – has no basis for comparison – and so she chooses by smell alone, drawn towards hints of peppermint and deep, rich cocoa that feel impossibly lush against her hair and skin.

The towel she uses afterward is, of course, the finest Egyptian cotton, fluffy and indulgent as she pats herself dry. The sight of her still-damp hair, pushed back from her forehead with only her fingers, is a strangely private one, seen reflected like this in his mirror. It makes her feel more shy than being all but nude in front of him did. It should worry her more that she can even _think_ of herself, bared before him, without fleeing from here in shame.

It only occurs to her when she's getting redressed, that the bastard has claimed her panties.

At least she finds the decency to blush as she emerges from his bathroom.

He's sprawled across the office's leather couch, totally at ease, but he stands when she re-enters the room. “Mmm. The best part of seeing you clean and unsullied is thinking about how much I long to make you dirty again. _Such_ a delicious sight.” He grins at her, and it's positively wicked. “Shall we get right on with it? No, I suppose you'll have your questions.”

She asks the first of them, but in light of that unwavering smile, it doesn't hit with as much force as she intended. “What the hell business do you have in this realm? I didn't call for you.”

He waves a hand, dismissive. “You already did that many years ago, Precious. It was never a closed invitation. Besides, I find this century fascinating. The influx of technology is breathtaking, as is your relatively recent heed of the plight of your fellow man. It's also quite refreshing to see your changing attitudes towards sex roll round again. Silly, really, that brief period of prudishness – as if childbirth was shameful, and your ancestors _didn't_ take their fucking in full view of the rest of their tribes. Sexual liberation, women's rights, charity, and cordless phones – it's all quite stimulating for me. Still, it will be something of a comfort when we return home for a while.”

She cocks her head to one side. “Home?” It's foolish – she knows as well as he does where this is headed, but she can't resist asking. She needs to hear it come from him.

“My kingdom, Sarah – the one you so cruelly refused, once. I've given you time enough to rethink your decision, and now I believe it's been made quite clear to both of us exactly what it is you want.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He answers her question with one of his own. “Why were you so keen to read the princess' surrender?”

 _Shit._ “It was just a reading! It didn't mean I wanted to … to …” What? Swear her fealty to the Goblin King? Elope with him? Allow for him to fuck her again, right here, right now?

“A reading you had not prepared for. Don't bother to lie to me, love, I know _my_ Sarah – she wouldn't come to such an important audition unprepared. You had a different scene planned, you saw _me_ , and it caused you to change your mind. Why?” When she does not answer – _can_ not answer – he chuckles softly. “As I thought. If words are troubling you, I have other suggestions to occupy that mouth – you seem so talented with it, after all.”

She's positive that her face must be crimson with shame by now. “Since you're determined to act like a jerk, I'm going to go ahead and pretend you didn't say that.” She also pretends not to notice just how appealing his lips are, when he pouts in mock-disappointment. “Okay, so let's say that, deep down, I _did_ know it was you. Let's assume that was just my head's way of testing the water – making sure that you were really, well, _you_ , and that I wasn't going crazy.”

Her excuses are doing nothing but amuse him, and his smug smile is getting under her skin. “Hmm. And you couldn't have done that by simply _asking_?”

“What would you have suggested? 'Hi, I'm Sarah, I'm here to audition, and, also, did you once kidnap my brother eight years ago?'”

He tuts; wags a finger. “Only when you willed it, if you'll recall.”

“ _Regardless_ , I couldn't be sure. You look …” Hot? Like some genetically blessed, incredibly _fuckable_ \- “…different. _Human_. Besides, it's not like I've seen you in almost a decade.”

“And how much has changed in that time.” His eyes rake down her body like scorching, _sumptuous_ talons, and she can't repress her shiver. He gives her a wink when his eyes finally return to hers. “I'm glad to know you've finally gotten over that silly business of defying me, at least. If nothing else, I think both of us can agree that we were in sore need of _that_ little rendezvous.”

She has to concur, but, of course, not in a way he can see or hear. “It was just sex. I haven't agreed to obey anything you ask of me.”

“You will, in time.”

His satisfaction is radiating from him in waves – Sarah can practically _feel_ it. This is a man who has the capacity to drive her mad, and, most likely, in a way that makes her love him for it. He still hasn't made a move to kiss her, and she tries to push that exasperating thought from her mind in favour of more important business – like how the hell she's going to get out of this office without succumbing to him again. Like how she's going to face her boring life and shitty apartment after all this. Would it be undignified for a lowly actress to go tearing out of here, screaming at the top of her lungs?

Would it be undignified for a monarch of both worlds – the goblins' hard king, and strutting prince of Hollywood – to come running after her?

He's speaking again, something about their return to his realm, and she forces her muddled brain to leave its distracted, futile thoughts of escape, to seize on it.

“What would that even entail? Hypothetically speaking – because I am _not_ agreeing to _anything_ – would I be trapped there? Made to stay forever in your world, like you threatened to do with Toby? Would I ever be able to see my family again? My own _world_ , even?”

He shrugs, as if the idea has hardly concerned him. “We can return, on occasion – I sense you'd like that. As I said, even _I_ am not entirely blind to the charms of this realm. We can visit, certainly, but I think we both know where you truly belong.”

Where she belonged. Could a kingdom full of goblins and dreamscapes really be any stranger than tinseltown in the early 90s? At least the magic _there_ would be real. But, oh, no, she isn't thinking about running away with him, not seriously, at least. Not after just one fuck. There's something between them, yes, that's obvious now, but surely she can't be foolish enough to still believe in a happily ever after. She knows all too well that the only fairytale endings to be found around here take at least eight takes to film, and, more often than not, involve an angry director screaming in her ear.

She knows _this_ director could cause a different screaming entirely, but, oh, that sets her mind wandering down the path of certain _other_ happy endings – and, no, she _really_ isn't thinking about that. He's offering her a way out of this place, of this life she's hated for so long – an actual fairytale; one that a certain mouse corporation would have difficulty slapping anything less than an R-rating on, to boot.

It's everything her musing teenage-self had dreamed of – the handsome hero come to rescue her at last, but he's no watered-down Prince Charming, with a spring in his step, a pure song in his heart, and, no doubt, a politely repressed hard-on to rival a Ken doll's. No, since the Goblin King came into her life all those years ago, she's learned it's sometimes more thrilling to root for the villain. She needs a little excitement, and there's more than enough of that seductive cad in him to tempt her … and as for the sex …

No, she _still_ isn't thinking about that. How can she even dream of planning the rest of her life while she's still high on his touch, and throbbing from the way he's been inside her? The smug bastard has yet to return her underwear.

Ignoring his statement, or attempting to, at least, she crosses the room to his desk. “What the hell did you do with my panties?” she asks, unsurprised to find no trace of them beneath the desk, or otherwise. She notices, with a dull sense of embarrassment, that he has cleaned up the mess they made together, his desk shining and spotless once more.

“You're not going to find them there, love.” His voice, so close to her ear once again, makes her jump. She hadn't even heard him approach, but as she was beginning to realise, wherever she went, he would be sure to follow.

She jerks her head away and turns to face him, regretting it at once. He relents none of that close proximity, and she finds herself stepping backwards, simply to remove herself from the temptation his lips now offer. She winces inwardly, both at the way her retreat weakens her, and at the feel of solid wood against the backs of her thighs, blocking off any further hope of escape.

“So … what? You're stealing underwear now, as well as babies?”

Jareth grins as he closes that space between them. “Am I not entitled to a trophy for my victory over you?”

Somewhere, vaguely, that amuses her, and she has to bite back her own smile. It would be crazy to laugh at a time like this, but he's always done the whole teasing thing well. “I didn't get anything when I beat the labyrinth – when I beat _you_.”

“Might I remind you again that you turned down my most generous offer, and left me feeling quite inadequate, you naughty girl. Besides, now you have _me_.”

“Oh, you smug …” She turns her face away, irked; shamelessly aroused.

He wastes no time in turning it back. The fingers beneath her chin warm her far more than they have any business doing. “Just as _my_ reward is you,” he continues, and his words are as soft as his lips look. “And, for what it's worth, the offer still stands.”

 _Just let me rule you_ … Oh, and treading any further down _that_ path would be dangerous territory indeed. She's getting breathless already, and, try as she might, she cannot _stop_ eyeing his goddamn mouth. “Can I at least think about this?”

“Of course, provided you have no objection to various _other_ activities, whilst said thinking occurs.”

“You know damn well how hard you make it to think.”

“Mmm-hmm. 'Hard' being the operative word.” She doesn't move as his hands come to rest on either side of her hips, holding onto the edge of his desk and keeping her effectively pinned between it, and his body. Those damnable lips move closer – dangerously close – and brush the corner of her jaw as he speaks. “It's not all bad, is it, love?” he purrs. “I think you managed to find at least _some_ level of enjoyment while you were pulsing around my cock.”

She almost hears the wet sound the pit of her stomach makes, as it hits the floor. Her voice emerges low and hoarse. “Stop.”

“As you wish.” It's only when he removes himself from her immediate vicinity, that she realises how much she misses his heat. How has he managed to burn her so very deeply?

“Wait.”

And he does. His smile is inviting, _magnetic_ , drawing her in, and in the end there's no possible way she can resist. She leans closer, breathing in the warm, masculine scent of him, her intent clear, but he plucks even _that_ power from her grasp, moving at the last second to press his mouth decisively to hers. She should be frustrated, should pull back and slap him for this, but oh, god, he's _kissing_ her, and nothing else seems to matter any more. She groans deeply, and it's swallowed up by his full, supple lips, his hot tongue invading her mouth.

Somehow, he manages to coax her into sitting atop his desk, and she has _no_ idea exactly when he manages to wangle his way between her thighs. Her legs have parted most accommodatingly, without quite meaning to, somewhere along the line, letting his eager hands, and her already-rumpled skirt ride up high upon her thighs. Both of them know she's bare beneath it.

Of the many hours she spent trapped inside his labyrinth, perhaps a total of only one was actually spent in his company, but it has proven enough to ruin her for a lifetime. Somehow, she's finding it increasingly difficult to care. With her fingers fisted in his soft blonde hair, her thighs wrapped so perfectly around his slim hips, it is easy to forgive him anything. His kiss is all the apology she needs.

She thought at first she might attack him, in her need and her frustration, but there's a raw sensuality in him that coaxes her from savagery. His lips are soft and enticing, and he soothes her hungry mouth with his tongue, kissing her deeply, and with a passion that makes her toes curl. She presses her heels into the firm curves of his ass, pulling him in closer. Already, the hard shape of his cock pushes back. She gives a low groan against his lips, pulling back just enough to free her mouth from his demanding tongue.

“You didn't even lock the door last time,” she gasps, but her voice is weak; distracted, as his mouth continues to take whatever it can. He seeks out bare, wanting skin like his lips were made for no other purpose, finding a spot along her jawline that she never dreamed could make her knees weaken this way. “Someone could … someone could come …”

“Mmm … that's what I'm counting on.”

She turns her face away, grasping for reason, for anything other than how goddamn _good_ his lips feel. “We've waited this long – shouldn't we at least take this somewhere more private?”

Undeterred, he shifts his kisses to her throat instead, his words reverberating through the sensitive skin there. “It's a little late for that, don't you think – and haven't I been patient enough? I waited _years_ to touch you for the first time – years of lusting and longing – and I'm still _far_ from satisfied. You can't expect me to wait any longer to have you again. Besides, there's no one here to see you but _me_ – and I'll never share you, love. I can give you romance, one day, when we've worked off some of this infernal need, but for now – and the next time, and the next – just let me _fuck_ you.”

She should protest, but instead, she tips her head back to give him better access. She moans as his lips and tongue take full advantage, and again as his hands find her breasts. “You're … you're being pretty presumptuous, just assuming there's gonna be a 'next time'.”

His smile is wide against her pulse point. “You're at least staying on for the film, aren't you? I figure we'll have time for lots of fun behind the scenes.”

“So I got the part?”

He gives a hard thrust of his hips to make his point. “Who do you think sent word to your agent? The other girls were a formality – it was yours to begin with.” His hands squeeze her breasts, and he presses a kiss to the point of her chin as he works his way back to her mouth. “Always meant for you. Written for you. _Waiting_ for you.” Groping her, reawakening those parts of her anatomy that he manipulates so well. Cupping her ass through her skirt, and grinding himself against her firmly enough to leave the guilty imprint of her wetness on his khakis. “All you had to do was _come.”_

She whimpers softly; nibbles at his warm, velvet mouth. “Shut up and _fuck_ me, then.”

There's still the urgency of their first time, but now, blessedly, she's given more chance of her own to explore. She gets to _watch_ him as he moves to be inside her. Her fingers still tremble as they unbutton his shirt, this time, but now it's sheer impatience that makes her unsteady. She peels the shirt open, and his bare chest is warm and smooth beneath her eager palms. She lets her hands skim over his nipples, the firm muscles of his belly, and this time it's her who unfastens his belt.

She yields easily enough to him as he strips her of her blouse and bra, laying kisses on every square inch of bare skin he discovers; hikes her skirt up around her waist once more. The blue tails of his shirt flap around his hips as he lets trousers and briefs both slip to the floor. Between toned, pale thighs, his cock juts long and full, curving upward almost enough for the tip to nudge at his belly. It's the most undressed she has ever seen him, and it makes her all the more excited to have him this way – dishevelled, aroused; undeniably _hers._

Finally, he's back within the circle of her legs, hands staking their claim of her hips, the thick head of his cock hot and hard against her inner thigh. He wastes no time pushing into her as her arms lock around his neck, filling her thoroughly as she lays back, and urges him down to join her. He remains standing before his desk, though, using the leverage to press deeper inside her as she cries out, but he leans down with her enough to mouth at her left breast.

His hands tighten around her hips, as he tongues her nipple. She arches into his hot mouth; raises her hips to meet every thrust as he moves inside her. She can feel the vibrations all through her overheated flesh as he moans around her nipple, before beginning to suck, and the sensation runs a torrid line down through her belly, all the way down to her soaking wet cunt. He alternates between her breasts, not out of any real desire to tease her, but seemingly his own need to devour as much of her as he possibly can. He sucks, and licks, and bites gently at her reddened and throbbing nipples, but his hands never surrender their claim of her hips; his own hips never slow as he makes her _his_.

Had she ever realised that _this_ was what she was missing in her life? If she had, would she have sought him out sooner, finding some excuse to meet with the great director, in the hope of having him fuck her senseless? As he moves inside her, filling her deeply with every hard thrust, she knows the answer is yes, yes, _yes_. He feels amazing, like everything she has wanted for so long, granted at last, and, perhaps craziest of all, it feels powerful, like she hasn't just accepted the inevitable, but has seized it; made it her own. Her orgasm surges up from the very tips of her toes, but before she gives herself over to it, she calls for him to join her, her legs tightening around him, driving him in to the hilt.

This time, before he spills himself inside her, she gets to watch the hunger in his eyes, the urgent need for release. The sight of the great Goblin King as he transcends mere mortal beauty at the height of his pleasure, to become something else entirely. It's glorious – _he_ is glorious – and in that moment, as she comes along with him, reaching a level of pleasure only he has been able to gift her with, he belongs only to her.

When he finally collapses atop her, his warm weight, pressed tightly against her racing heart, is freeing.

 


	3. Knocking me dead

“ _No_ , Sarah. It just … won't … _do_. Again – from the beginning this time, I think.”

It's the thirteenth time 'Jared' has called 'cut' on her in what feels like as many minutes, and both of their frustration is starting to show in her performance. She can feel the tension impeding her every gesture; her cheeks growing hotter in front of everyone who's witness to her humiliation as she fails to please him, over and over again. He knows she can do better, and it's plain he's irritated with her lack of co-operation now, but dammit, _she's_ annoyed too. She's the only one, talent or crew, who dares to even try to speak back to him when he's wound tight like this, and any outsider might think her either incredibly daring, or else very foolish indeed, for her nerve.

She knows there's no such deliberation amongst her colleagues here – the director's little fuck-toy is bound to have _some_ sway over him, after all. There's not a soul on set who doesn't know about what passes for their relationship, by now. If they think that she holds any _real_ power over their demanding employer, though, then _they're_ the fools. Here, as always, he commands her utmost obedience, as he does everyone else.

Already, her co-stars – the chancellor, the man-at-arms, the mother-like maid – are moving onto their marks, the rest of the crew making the minor adjustments needed for yet another re-take. Everyone is getting restless, and it would be best to just grin and bear his pedantry until the morning is finally over for all of them. Still, she can't help a snider remark than usual as she glares over at him, rocked back so arrogantly in his director's chair.

“If you think you can do better, honestly, by this point, go ahead – I'll even lend you my dress,” she calls out, and, somewhere, she thinks she hears one of the grips start to snigger off-set. “I'm open to suggestions right now, seeing as I just don't seem to be cutting it today.”

Oh, he's going to make her pay for that. The knowledge floods her with its certainty, and her cheeks are no longer the only things hot. She has the presence of mind to bat her eyelashes a little, in an attempt to take the edge off her words, but it's clear he's having none of it. She sees the dark flash of lust in his eyes – a moment of what could almost be called admiration for daring to defy him in front of all of his crew – and the barest hint of a smile as he swings his legs down from his chair. Oh, Christ, he's coming for her – _wants_ her – and she's not entirely sure if the other people around them will make a difference.

He's on his feet in an instant, crossing the set towards her in long, purposeful strides, and she's put in mind of staircases and showdowns – the last time she dared face up to him like this. There was a brief moment, back then, where in his magic he was able to pass _through_ her body – a single second where it felt like she was breathing with two mouths; two sets of lungs – and now it causes her breath to hitch in her throat. At times like this, she wonders how he could possibly pass for one of them – the voracious fire in his eyes is _far_ from mortal, and it makes her shiver with its heat.

She licks nervously at her lips as he reaches her. One firm hand comes to rest, deliberate and possessive for all to see, at the small of her back. “Our leading lady apparently needs a moment to compose herself. Take fifteen,” he announces, to everyone and no one in particular, then, to her, only nominally quieter: “Trailer. _Now_. We're going to thrash out this little fit of temper _and_ these lines, you and I, and you can be certain I'm going to drill you on them _thoroughly_.”

They're moving before she can object, and she barely has time to blush before they have left the confines of the set, and emerged into the open air of the studio lot. He has complained often that morning she's not showing adequate chemistry towards her character's love interest. She cannot help but feel that this isn't entirely her fault – she has yet to meet, or even learn the _name_ of the man who will play the role, after all.

More of his unconventional tactics in filming, he declares, so that the emotions in their first on-screen encounter will be genuine. In the script, the princess does not meet her king until she has already agreed to wed him. Everyone else buys it easily enough, but Sarah cannot help but feel he _enjoys_ keeping her in the dark this way.

In her curiosity, she has asked around, but crew and talent alike seem to be as perplexed as she is. If their director has managed to land a famous name to act as king, he guards it with the utmost secrecy. In the meantime, they film the scenes that include only Sarah, and each one _must_ be perfect. She will not meet the Elven King until she, in all her efforts, has proven herself worthy of his love; until she herself is all but smitten.

The scene in question today is, of course, her submission. She has been painted and primped and draped in silks to become the majestic princess of the director's vision, and she must declare her loyalty to the wicked king who has won her – who has seduced her from afar to be his. She has practised her lines most nights – _some_ nights, at least, on those rare occasions Jareth has no need of her, anyhow – and she's starting to feel the exhaustion. An adequate sense of anger, fear, and desperate longing is hard to portray when she has yet to find out who the emotions are even aimed at. She has enough difficulty working out such conflicts of her own, right now.

In the script, the king sends her stubborn warrior princess character lavish gifts and frequent letters – letters into which he will pour his generous affections and deepest longings. He flatters and cajoles and pitches woo – all the romantic trappings Sarah herself had dreamed of as a girl. As the weeks pass, she delivers her lines before the camera's all-seeing eye, and – slowly, but surely – the princess comes to accept the king that seeks to win her heart. In a way, it's romantic – a fantastical love story the audiences will eat up.

Sarah has no doubt that all these warm words and declarations of love have been penned with her in mind, and she's not too ignorant to actually enjoy their meaning. When the princess' heart at last starts to melt, it feels easy enough to portray – her own feels like it's starting to follow suit. No, the acting isn't a problem, limited though her range is. It's what's happening off-script that's causing her troubles.

That is, to say, her _real-life_ king.

By day, his words implore her to be his queen, but at night, when the cameras aren't running, her king wants only for her to debase herself at his whim. To her credit, or perhaps her disgrace, she plays _this_ part much better. It's like something new and untamed has been unleashed within her, and it's running far beyond her control. Their lovemaking has the heat and fury of an animal that has been caged too long – fierce, and hot, and so very, very needy. She worships him by taking him greedily into her throat, pushing until she almost gags as he fills her willing mouth; guides him into her slick and throbbing cunt with the impatience of a woman who _demands_ to be sated. He brings her ecstasy untold; pleasures without number.

He runs her ragged, both on set and off; in his bed, and out. There's no longer a wall in her trailer, nor the plush green room, that she can look upon without blushing at the memory of him having her there. It's sex, and it's incredible, but it's _more_. It's an outlet for the frustration that has built up all these years. It's the closest she will ever come to apologising for being foolish enough to ever deny him, and the power he holds over her. Alone, afterwards, she fears it is the beginning of her own surrender.

The opening of a door drags her back to the present. Of course, the trailer he speaks of is his own. It's larger and a little more luxurious than hers, with black-tinted windows for privacy, but – she has established from the envious looks she gets from her female co-workers – it's far from soundproof. The door closes behind them, and he's both aroused by her defiance, and disappointed in her.

“Your eyes were on fire when you spoke out just then – where was that fire in your performance?” he demands.

“It's hard to act when there's a colossal pain in my ass,” she snaps back.

“See? Even now, there's more passion in you than there was in all of those pathetic takes combined,” he says, blunt as ever. “There's no lust in your words today. It's like you're just reading them from the script, when you should be _living_ them. I want you wet, and weak-kneed, and _wild_ when you're talking about the man you're to take as your new husband and king.”

The worst part is knowing he's right. She's angry enough, now, at him for embarrassing her this way, and growing angrier as she speaks. “Maybe my performance would benefit from actually _meeting_ my new king – not spending every night I _should_ be rehearsing pinned under the one who refuses to leave me the fuck alone.”

He has the audacity to smirk at that, even though it's clear he's genuinely impatient with her this time. “Now, where would the fun or excitement in that be? You're supposed to submit; allow your new love inside you. What better rehearsal can there be than having _me_ inside you? Besides, I've never once heard you complain – and you _can_ be quite loud at times, love.” His tone is a warm caress, and she can't resist it even through her rage, particularly when it grows firm – _dominating_ – once more. “Now, we haven't the time for your fussing – _lie down.”_

There's an immediate ripple of desire deep in her belly, but still she has to object. “Are you serious? I'm going to have to spend another hour in hair and make-up, and this dress creases really easily.”

“Then remove it.”

Blushing, she does as he asks, at least having the courtesy towards the wardrobe department to set the flimsy thing carefully aside. As much as he's irked her that morning, he's looking incredible in a crisp white open-throated shirt, paired with a black waistcoat and matching suit pants, and she _wants_ him. There will be a certain satisfaction in messing up that perfectly pushed back hair; rumpling that immaculately pressed shirt in the heat of their passion. A decent fuck is at least something to spend a little of her built up frustration on – something she's in dire need of right now.

The bra and panties beneath her elegant costume are her own, simple cotton, though he eyes her body as if she's draped in the finest lingerie – lingerie he has already begun to buy her, to their mutual pleasure. Even when he gets her pissed like this, even though he has, by now, seen her bared before him a hundred times, he makes her feel like she's something exquisite – like her body is some fine artwork he could absorb for hours on end. As much as she hates to admit it, it's a feeling she could get used to. No other man has _ever_ looked at her that way. She bends to peel off her panties without having to be asked.

“No, leave them on,” he insists.

She soon learns he has no intention of actually fucking her.

He urges her towards the compact bed that now serves for nothing _remotely_ resembling its intended restful purposes, and his eyes darken as she lies before him. She has learned, by now, that if he is angry or horny enough, his strange pupils will dilate until they are almost the same size. She sees that's the case right now, and it makes her all the more eager. She finds she's already a little wet, just from falling victim to that stare. He grins naughtily down at her as he comes to kneel by her feet, placing his hands onto her knees and urging them apart. She yields willingly, but when she expects him to cover her body with his own, he surprises her.

Instead of climbing on top, he settles in on his belly between her spread thighs, propping himself up on his elbows as he smiles up at her. It's devious, the way that smile is positioned so perfectly above her panties – his mouth close enough for her to feel his breath warming her. She can feel herself blush hotter at the intent in his eyes, and she starts to sit up – starts to protest.

“I … I don't normally…” _Do that_ , she wants to say, but how often has she dreamed of having _him_ this way – of having those lips dedicated entirely to her pleasure? She's all but shaking at the thought of coming for him that way, while his mouth is buried in her wetness. It's thrilling and embarrassing all at once, that he would want to do something like that for her – and from the gleam in his eyes, she can tell he wants it as much as she does.

“Just lie back, love,” he purrs. He leans in and nips at the inside of one thigh, his mouth hot against her bare skin. His nose brushes the front of her panties as he does it – lightly, but enough to make her squirm beneath him. “Just lie back, and take what's coming to you.”

Somehow, she can't obey him this time. She stays like that, half-sitting, fascinated with the sight of him this way. If he's taking her to heaven and hell at once, God help her, she wants a front row seat. “Is this supposed to be your punishment for what happened just now?”

“Of a sort,” he says, gracing her with another somewhat gloating smile. “Though I _have_ wanted your thighs wrapped around my shoulders for quite some time. I'm not going to let you come, you see – not just yet, anyway. I want you good and worked up for the scene, with some of that fire and passion I _know_ you're capable of – the glint in your eyes I see every time you're panting beneath me.”

She can hardly focus on that as his hands are stroking at her thighs, now, running endless, tantalising patterns along her burning skin. Her hips are starting to undulate for him, her anger quickly melting away; melting beneath his touch as she so often does. It's yet another time she's given in to him – yet another paving stone on that path to her ultimate submission to the Goblin King. She can't help but think just how appealing that surrender is starting to seem. A soft moan spills from her lips as her eyes fixate on his mouth, imagining how it will feel against her. She knows it won't be long before she finds out, and the thought sends more heat flooding down to her core.

One hand moves to caress her between her legs, stroking her through her panties just to tease her before the main event, his thumb starting to press between her lips. She gasps loudly, her hips surging up to meet his touch. There's no doubt he can feel her wetness, now, running his thumb slowly up and down, the contact warm, and just short of ticklish through the thin fabric.

“If you're good girl and get the scene down in less than ten takes, this time, I might just finish the job later on,” he tells her. “A much more thorough job than we have time for now – but only if _I'm_ satisfied with your performance first. Only the good little actresses get the awards – and _**re**_ _wards_ – don't they, pet?” He winks up at her. “Still so eager for me to continue?”

“Please …” When he has her turned on like this, she would beg for him to set her on fire, and both of them know it.

“As you wish – and as you asked _so_ nicely,” he says, and then both his hands are moving, tugging the damp crotch of her panties aside just enough to give him access. He leans in close – enough to make her heart stop – and then draws back, considering. He smiles as his hands move to her hips, instead, tugging at her waistband.

“On second thought, I think I'll take these,” he says, before stripping her bare, and then pocketing her underwear before she can even think to protest. “I _was_ going to leave you in them, soaked in your own wetness, to inspire your performance. Perhaps, if you're entirely exposed instead, save for your dress, it'll encourage you not to waste more of my time on set.” He flashes her another lewd grin, and this time it's so close to her slick and wanting flesh that she cannot help but moan.

His smile falters as he finally turns his full attention to her bare slit, desire darkening his strange eyes as he looks upon her. “Oh, you're _so_ wet for me, love. So very wet,” he murmurs, and brings his face to her core.

He graces her with a kiss, first, and his mouth is divinely soft against her moist and swollen lips, his tongue firm and hot as it forces its way between them. He licks her in long, slow strokes, savouring her, exploring all she has to offer. His hands take a firm grip of her hips as his mouth moves against her, holding her still while he pleasures her, but there's no silencing her moans. She keens and wails as he feasts on her, driving her wild with that tongue, worshipping every last inch of her soaking wet cunt.

He finds her entrance, his tongue pausing to tease over its soft barriers before pushing inside, making her cry out loud. He murmurs his own satisfaction against her, the sensation humming through her receptive flesh and only deepening her moans. She bucks helplessly against him as he pushes her open that way, driving the tip of his tongue that tiny bit deeper. He gives her just enough to keep her panting and groaning – enough so that she wails her disappointment when he finally draws back.

“Frustrated enough yet, love?” he asks, and he's smiling even as he licks at his lips.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” she moans, weakly.

He chuckles as he bows his head once more, and the sound is muffled against her slick flesh. His eager tongue finds her clitoris easily, something he has denied her until now, and that's where her true torment begins. He circles the swollen bundle of nerves, slow and gentle, yet relentless, entirely without mercy as she all but screams his name. The edges of her vision darken, and she thinks she might actually faint as his lips close around that sensitive nub, and he starts to suck lightly instead, but she remains ever-conscious of him, driven close to insanity with the thrill she knows only he can give.

The sight of his lips thrust so tightly against her is almost more than she can stand, but she has to keep on watching as she grabs hold of his hair, urging him more firmly against her. All at once, she remembers his words, and feels the urge to wrap her thighs tightly around his shoulders too, insisting that he give her all she needs. In the end, she only watches – she lets _his_ power guide them.

She's beyond sensitive, now, unleashing high-pitched moans and wails as his tongue does delicious and terrible things to her, her hands moving restlessly in his hair. When she thinks it's impossible for him to send her any crazier, he raises his eyes to hers, and the lust that darkens them scorches her right down to her soul.

As promised, he doesn't quite bring her to that much-needed height of pleasure – she must prove herself worthy, first.

Back on set, when he calls 'action' again, she's all but trembling just with the memory of his touch. Her speech comes far easier this time, hot, angry words of how her mysterious suitor has coveted her all through these past long, lonely years, and of how her head now fights to prevail over the storm of emotion that he has stirred within her breast. The storm is winning, only growing in power, and the princess knows it. Perhaps even the actors behind the costumes know it, too, because no one dares interrupt her, not even when she goes off-script in her ire.

She _should_ be telling all who listen – the _camera_ – that she is too weak to uphold any kind of resistance any longer; that it's inevitable that she should fall to such a seductive and powerful foe. Instead, her confession cuts far closer to the bone, words of longing and desire stained dark with her anger. She speaks of how deeply the king has desired her all this time – years upon years of longing for her, of calling to her, before at last he has come seeking to stake his claim. She speaks of how he has tempted and tormented her; how, finally, he has broken down every last barrier between them, and how, even in her rage, she has rejoiced to see them fall.

She speaks of a man who has utterly consumed her, the same way she has always consumed him.

She goes on, pouring every last shred of emotion she can lay hands on into her performance. She strips herself entirely bare, her silken costume clinging to her overheated flesh like a second skin as she tells them of just how far she has fallen – how she is wholly, unquestionably _his_.

The set rings deafening with the new silence that follows, her breath hot and heavy in the back of her throat when she finishes at last. She cares nothing for her bewildered co-stars; the camera men struck dumb by her outburst. She cares only for her director's opinion.

His legs are still thrown over the arm of his chair, as is his usual, almost bored stance, where he will lounge back at his leisure, but this time he's been sitting upright all throughout her speech, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes intent only on her. There's a small, indecipherable smile on his face, and his eyes are shining.

“Perfect,” he says, and though the camera has finally caught the entire thing after all her failed attempts, it's clear neither of them give a damn about the movie any more.

Not too much later, they're in his lavish hotel room, or perhaps it's her own – she has long since ceased paying attention to the scenery – and he gives her the reward she has doubtless earned. He brings her to helpless, moaning ecstasy with his tongue, and she's just as wet, and as weak-kneed, and as wild as he wanted of her, but it's clear that both of them hunger for more.

She fucks with the same fire as he, his love, his _warrior_ , wild and wet as she is; wanton beneath him. She meets his every thrust; holds his eyes with the same burning hunger as his own devour her with. Even as the pleasure breaks over them both, neither relinquishes that all-consuming eye contact. She comes hard for him – _with_ him – and, perhaps for the first time, she _sees_ him the way he has always seen her.

In that moment, she knows she is his equal.

 


	4. Show me you're real / Curtain call

The dress she wears that day is a pale blue one, and quite lovely – soft velvet with dagged sleeves and white silk flowers covering the bodice. A delicate circlet sits on her brow, made from silver so fine it could also be spun from silk, scattered with droplets of pearls as bright and perfect as dew. It is, at that moment, her only jewellery – the ring will come soon enough. She is already as skittish as any bride on the morning of her wedding, prepared not by family and friends, but by an army of stylists, intent on making her perfection incarnate for her big day.

Fascinated, she watches in the dressing-room's wide mirror as she is transformed, her hair laid out in soft waves. It's threaded with real flowers – a blue almost dark enough to be purple; what she thinks might be irises. Her make-up is elegant yet understated, doing just enough to bring out her cheekbones and compliment the dark tones of her hair and eyes. It leaves her looking fresh and as natural as they will allow for, enhancing, rather than concealing her face. She is herself, but she's somehow _more_ , far from the pale young woman she normally looks at in the mirror. There's a striking quality to that face she has never seen before – one that no amount of make-up can account for.

She can only put it down to her new-found confidence these past few weeks – the sense of control over her life that she has never before felt, and the glow that has graced her skin along with it.

She's been growing; _learning_.

Choosing to heed her director's commands, she follows his guidance both on set and in his bed, but there's a freedom to her actions that she hasn't felt in a long time. Instead of simply working for a pay check, she finds she's doing it for the enjoyment it gives her; the rush she feels when she sees she has satisfied him as well. She will never be the world's finest actress, but she finds that if she channels the girl she once was – the one who once brought a king almost to his knees – she's better than she would ever have dreamed. She commands with ease the fire he has demanded of her performance; wields it with pride.

She delivers her lines with a passion that her performance has always lacked until now, giving commands to characters and co-stars both, and all with poise and dignity. At times, it hardly feels like she is acting at all. She's no mere starlet, not any more.

She has become a queen.

The thought is both a powerful and considerably daunting one.

No detail has been left untended that day, it seems – for the first time, the discriminating taste of her employer has extended to even the underwear she must wear for the scene. She knows the white silks and satins hidden beneath her dress are intended only for a groom's eyes; the lacy garter made for a husband's hands to peel off his lovely new wife. The move could be deemed one of method acting, another of his techniques, meant only to put her in the true mindset of a nervous young bride. Somehow, she knows better. On paper, there's at least another month of filming scheduled, but she knows, regardless, that today will be the last.

Today, the princess becomes the queen she was always destined to be.

The script for the day is, by their director's standards, noticeably vague, telling them only that today the grand wedding ceremony between princess and king will occur. The preparations have been under-way for hours, now, but only _she_ has any real idea of what that means. She hovers around the set with a sense of both fear and excitement, and something deeper – a growing sense of something she eventually names for what it is: finality.

She's been hovering like an unruly pixie around the set from the moment her hair was done, and she still can't figure out exactly what the crew are seeing while they go about their work. A castle's great stone hall stands open before her, and she can't help but think that the 'Elven King's throne room looks an awful lot like one she has seen before – and hasn't she known all along that it would? There's no sign of his goblins, nor of the other strange creatures that she met in her journey through his labyrinth, but there's no denying what's before her own eyes. She knows just how fitting it is.

None of the crew seem to see it – none of them _can_ see it, untouched by magic as they are – and it makes her want to scream at their ignorance. This is no elaborate set, though she has no doubt his crew will be charmed into remembering building it themselves, should anyone ask them. It shimmers with hidden magic, almost like a mirage. This is _his_ castle – his real  _domain_. He has opened the portal between their worlds, and when she crosses the threshold, she'll be agreeing to finally close that link that has laid open between them all this time. This is where she once denied his power over her, and now, it is to be the place where she finally accepts it. She has no doubt that the marriage she is marching into will be a real one.

There's no sign of him on set that morning – highly unusual, for someone as punctual and keen to perfection as he. The crew make their meaningless preparations anyway, concerning themselves with sound levels and lighting, while she stands perfectly still, forced to remind herself how to breathe. There's a restless energy in the air, and she can tell she's not the only one feeling a little spooked. Already, there's been an accident with the equipment, nervous hands the cause of shattered glass, the rig dropping like a bomb in the relative quiet, to low curses and harsh, angry words.

Her own curses remain silent.

There's an excitement, too, amidst the general disquiet of the crew. From them, she's heard rumours of virtually every big name actor under the sun being on set today – even some of the greats who have long since retired. Talent is eternal, after all, and it's amazing what can be done with prosthetics and computers these days – plus, their director could charm the birds down from the trees, if his vision so demanded it. No actor would be beyond his reach – he is, after all, a man well known for getting _exactly_ what he wants. Though Sarah ignores the silly rumours, she can't help but agree with them on his tenacity.

Today, after all these years of wanting, he's getting _her_.

Of course, she has long since guessed his secret, as he must have intended all along. She knows, from the way he has coached and inspired her that the one she goes to marry will be him. It has _always_ been him – could never _be_ anyone else. Just as the role of the princess had been written around _her_ , only her real king – the _true_ king – could ever be worthy of playing opposite. The movie set is nothing to him – he has been making his own preparations all this time. The role he intends to give her is the greatest he has to offer – a lifetime at his side.

The anticipation is killing her.

The tension is mounting as more time passes and Jared/Jareth does not appear, that strange energy in the air thickening all the while. She wrings her hands; chews off most, if not all of the pale swatch of colour that has been applied to her lips. She hardly thinks it matters. Make-up is nothing but a mask - like the one he wears in this realm – and she knows she has already proven herself to be everything he has asked for.

When she thinks she can bear the wait no longer, she finally hears his deep and unmistakable voice within her mind.

“Sarah.”

When she turns her gaze back to the castle's great hall, the very last piece falls into place. She's too captivated by what she sees to care to look at the mortals around her, but somehow, she knows it is a sight meant only for her eyes. An otherworldly light casts its glow over the stone floors; a pale mist washes over the room, unnoticed by anyone but her. Beyond it, he is waiting for her, waiting for her to join him.

Now, at last, the Goblin King has come to claim his queen.

Even after the many weeks they've spent together, the countless times she has found gasping and shuddering bliss in his arms, she finds him almost too beautiful to behold. It is his true self at last – one that has haunted and tempted her for years. His hair is spun gold, worn long over his shoulders, as it always should be, and his strange and piercing eyes are framed by the curious markings of his kind, dark onyx and opulent pearl. He is dressed all in white: boots, leggings, shirt and suit coat – the palest jewel she will ever lay eyes on.

All the air in her lungs seems to leave her in a single rush of breath, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. Fierce longing pulls on her from two very different directions at once, calling on her to look away from such a sight at once; to go on looking forever. He is exquisite, _elysian_ ; he is, at last, hers to have, if she so wants him. She knows that she does. He has stricken her incapable of speech, but she knows he will soon need the words from her, as he stands to face the girl who once bested him. There will be no resisting him this time, though. Only now is she ready to embrace such power that he wields. At last, she's ready to yield. Somehow, she coaxes her body into walking.

He smiles as she approaches; extends a pale, long-fingered hand across the barrier between their worlds. “It's time, love,” he says.

There is no hesitation as she finally takes what he offers.

She feels a deep spark of power that sends heat pulsing through her every vein; a dizzying sense of time doubling, folding in on itself as she crosses over. Through his hand, she feels the tingle of some incredible energy flowing through her whole body, thrilling – _electrifying_ – almost too much for a simple mortal to withstand, and yet she stands it anyway. Her lips part in sudden, blinding ecstasy, and she cries out, overcome, as his magic fills her to her very soul.

It's a near-orgasmic sensation, her every sense magnified, and the taste of power made palpable, sweet upon her tongue. Her body all but crumples with the strength of it, but then he's there, drawing her tightly into his embrace, shielding her from the world and deep magic around them. He holds her until she calms, his fingers playing over her hair, stirring fragrant notes from the flowers woven into it.

“You're ready,” he says, at last, and she knows it isn't a question. She nods anyway, and he releases her, taking a small step back to absorb her, his eyes moving over her face and form. “You're breathtaking,” he says simply, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “Everything I imagined. Everything I ever wanted you to be.”

Looking back at him, she has to agree.

When she can bear to pull her gaze from him, she sees that they are in the pale and blank slate that lies between worlds, with only the vaguest hints at shape or colour surrounding them. She recognises it as the place where she once denied him. He's waiting for her, even now, waiting to take her home at last so that he may sweep her off her feet. A hundred true fairytales end in morals and dire warnings, the Grimm realities glossed over for the sake of making kid-friendly cartoons. There's no guarantee that hers will end any better, but she follows him into it regardless, hand in hand as they take the final steps together.

She meets a lot of new faces that day, the long-awaited day of the Goblin King and Queen's wedding. Only lords and ladies of the highest esteem are permitted to bear witness to their union, every last one of them stunningly beautiful, but it's _his_ face her eyes return to most often, amazed, and aroused, and enamoured. He catches her eye just as often, and smiles only for her, and she doesn't have to pinch herself to know that it's all finally real.

The ring he places on her finger is lighter than air itself, some strange and gorgeously bright metal that lays against her skin as softly as a kiss. With due reverence, he hangs a silver amulet around her neck, the twin of his own, and an emblem only the Goblin Queen is deemed worthy to bear. It's a powerful gesture, but the words of devotion spoken in his low voice bind her far more effectively. She has not rehearsed her own, but the vows come easily enough to her as she looks into the eyes of the man who has won her heart at last. She will love, and serve, and bow before the king that has sworn to her the same and more. They kiss, as though for the first time, and though such a public display of obvious desire would usually embarrass her, here, it seems not only expected, but appreciated.

His lips lay claim to her for all to see, his arms drawing her body to his own. Encouraged, impassioned, she kisses him back just as thoroughly, and there can be no question of their devotion. There is no shame, nor doubt in their love.

The ceremony appears to be over after that, the room giving them their deepest bows and the thundering applause deserving of their king and his new queen. They receive it together, standing hip to hip, his arm wrapped around her waist, her fingers pressed to the small of his back beneath his jacket. Her heart flutters with excitement, hardly able to believe the fact that she's actually _married_ – that _they_ are married.

She thinks there will be feasting, perhaps dancing, then, and she is right. The fae folk will celebrate their marriage with many toasts, rich courses without number, and songs and merry steps to welcome in their monarchs' new reign. Jareth bows his head close, to murmur the rest in her ear. The king and his queen will join the revellers only later, when their marriage has been consummated, the devotion from their vows shown in the flesh.

Sarah has to smile at that, despite the new blush it raises. Now, she at least knows that his near-insatiable appetite is the norm here. She embraces the heat his kiss and his closeness have raised within her, secretly thrilled by the idea of all that now lays before them. She laughs as he lifts her briefly in his arms, letting her own slip around his neck as he carries her. When he sets her down again, they are alone, and she sees the welcome sight of the bed they will share.

Free at last to fully explore his flushed and aroused bride, her eager groom wastes no time in doing just that. His tongue lays claim to her mouth, and it's just as deep a kiss as he took from her earlier, but now there's no one else to share in their passion for one another, nor hear the way the new bride cannot help but moan into it. Her pale gown is shed like corn-silk to pool around her ankles, and he helps her to step out of it, urging her towards the bed, kissing her neck and stroking her through those carefully chosen underthings all the while.

He releases the clasp of her bra, freeing her breasts and burying his face between them. He teases both nipples with his tongue until they're aching for him, her hands fisted in his hair, keening softly as he pleasures her. It's exquisite, but she misses the heat of his mouth against her own, and after a time she pulls at his hair, urging him up, urging him to kiss her again as he takes her to bed. When he finally relinquishes her breast, though, it is for his own purposes.

She catches a hint of that devilish smile she has come to desire so well, and then her king slowly sinks to his knees before her. His hands skim lightly across her ribs to her hips, letting his lips graze her bare stomach all the way down to her navel. With no more than a soft caress of his hands, he urges her legs to part for him; leans in and draws the silk and lace of her garter down and off completely with his sharp teeth. The graze of those teeth against her sensitive flesh is enough to make her gasp, but by then he's already turning his attention towards making her moan instead, turning his hands towards removing her panties.

He peels the already-damp satin from her body with ease, stroking along the inside of both of her legs, all the way down to her ankles. She steps out of the underwear, and then his hands retrace the path they have made, moving upwards this time, now free to chart the newly-exposed curves of her ass. He gropes and squeezes, urging her body closer, rubbing his cheeks and the corners of his lips against her inner thighs all the while.

She moans as he presses his warm mouth to her slick lower lips, dragging his tongue in a hot line all along her slit. Bucking her hips to urge him on does nothing – he only wants to taste, to _tease_ – as then he's rising to his feet again, his eyes dark with lust. With a low groan, he crushes his lips to hers; pulling her hips into his so that she can feel from his erection just how much he wants her.

Granted the luxury of his kiss again, she greets it with passion, meeting every hot stroke of his tongue. Her hands are wild in his long hair, her body pressed flush to his. The silk of his shirt is a delicious barrier between them, gliding like cool water over her taut nipples, and she wants to bury herself in the fabric as much as she longs to tear it from his shoulders. Only he can make her wild this way.

“I need you,” she manages, between their kisses.

“You've got me, love. Always.” With one hand tangled in her hair, he slips the other between her thighs, doing just as much to support her body as it melts for him as it does to disarm her further. “ _Often_ ,” he adds, grinning as his middle finger buries itself deep inside her. He captures her new moans with his keen mouth.

She's putty in his hands, and he moulds her so well, stoking that heat between her legs, readying her to take all of him. They stumble the remaining few steps to the bed, eager hands leaving a tangled trail of his clothing behind them. It's a dance they both know well, bodies moving to compliment the other, exploring every new inch of flesh that is bared. Naked at last, he urges her down against the pillows, kissing her all the while as he sinks down on top of her. The hard heat of him presses urgently against her thigh, and she _needs_ it, arching her hips, coaxing him to take her for the first time as his wife.

When she can stand it no longer, he reverses their arrangement, so that his own back is against the bed, rolling her onto his chest. There, he takes hold of her hips and urges her into the one position where he has yet to take her – seated on top of him. There's fire in his eyes as he draws her down over his stiff cock, both of them savouring the sensation as her willing body accepts every last inch of him.

Her ascension to greatness, the perfection he has always demanded of her, it has all been for this. He has not tamed the fire within her, but urged it to burn higher, _brighter_ , with more passion than ever before. She is, at last, a woman who knows exactly what she wants, and is unafraid to simply _take_ it, just as she now takes him inside of her.

She starts to move atop him, taking him deeper than he has ever been in her, then raising up, only to sink down on him again. Though they've never done this before, there's confidence in her movements, her hips shifting to accept him, setting a firm pace that he's quick to match. His hands tighten about her hips, pulling her down harder, driving himself upwards into her tight and dripping cunt.

“Ahh, Sarah.” It's the first time he's ever uttered her name during their sex, and it sets her insides cramping with all kinds of new pleasure. He must see the effect it has upon her, because he says it again, lower this time, each syllable a moan. “ _Sarah_.”

She can feel the lust pouring from his gaze; feel his cock filling her, throbbing inside her as she starts to move faster. His strange and gorgeous eyes take in all of her as she rides him long and hard, his gaze heavy on her breasts as they move along with her efforts. He looses her hips to caress each peaked nipple instead, letting her move at her own pace as his eyes reclaim her face.

“Take what you need, my love, my _queen_ ,” he urges, his hands cupping the weight of her breasts, squeezing, pressing them together as she moves atop him. “Ride me – _fuck_ me. Show me just what you want.”

There's a fierceness in his eyes as she _does_ ride him; a blistering heat that might cause any lesser woman's skin to crack and peel. She is no lesser woman, though. She owns that stare, possesses it the same way he has laid claim of her, taking her king as deep as she wills, and savouring his moans of pleasure. She has agreed to give him everything, and in return he is her most willing slave. He groans her name again, with a reverence she never knew him capable of.

"Jareth ... _Jareth_ ..." Her own cries are loud and unashamed. The sensation of his cock filling her so deeply, spreading her open, is almost too much to bear. She can feel her climax building, but she will not tip her head back to the ceiling when her pleasure breaks. She will look upon her husband as she comes for him, allow for him to see the bliss only he can give her, and capture his own.

He has long been a part of her past, this man, this _king_ – the dream made real; the driving pleasure of her present, filling her senses, consuming her. Yet, as they reach ecstasy in each other's arms, as he yields to the heat of her body and fills her with his essence, and as his name leaves her lips in a helpless, blissful cry, she knows that he is her future, too. Beyond the pleasure, there will be a lifetime of this, of him; of _them._

She has found her king, and he his queen, and there's no one to call 'cut' on whatever ending they choose to forge together. She's home – _his_ , and he is hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! Sorry for the delay, and hope it was worth it. Huge thanks to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos :)


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